Dear listening ear

Dear listening ear, 

 People say that soft and subtleness is beautiful in a woman. but to me it has always been my fear; because this world has never been fond of soft things, and its never had the eye for subtleness. 

it's never had the eye for me. 

my biggest fear has always been that no one would ever see me. that no one would see when I was trying to share a laugh with someone, that no one would pick up on when I was trying to express myself, or that no one would see when i just wanted to feel loved. making me feel that my message didn't matter. that i didn't matter.
 And like you've probably guessed, this class has been one of the those painful things. From day 1, I decided that my fears would probably be that I would blend in. That my blog would be "one of those blogs". That my heart would be, oh you know, "one of those hearts". So I detached myself from my self. 
 If I didn't get any comments, then it was Ricochet's fault, not mine.
 If my writing lacked confidence, then I could say it wasn't me. 
If anyone had to be invisible, please let it be her. Not me.
For most of this class, I created Ricochet. I made her the person that I feared I was....And I never even knew her. And now I have to let her go. 
 Most of the "heart" you saw on here was hers. It was the kind that is half muscle and blood, half grinning-and-bearing-it. It was Ricochet's. Because I condemned her to that. I could've made her amazing, but I didn't. 
 It wasn't until around the time when we talked about fear in class and we wrote down everything we didn't want, that I realized Ricochet Greyson was everything that was spilled on my paper.
And that was when we became one. That was when I made her visible. It was there that I created her with experiences around the campfire, made a map of our heart, or an album of my life. That was when I decided that I loved Ricochet Greyson. 
 It was a short bout, a great last ride together. I could've made her amazing, but instead I chose to make her a imperfect. My masterpiece. 
And now here I am trying to write her away. 
But I don't think I can do it. 
 Before that time she would've had you believe that she was depressed, but still remarkably pushing through. She would have you believe that she had all of the confidence and hope in the world. 
 But now she would have you believe that I am alive and that I know I am different even though my subtle self makes it hard to see. She would try to make you see that I have had my share of crisis and heartbreak. I may be awkward or average, or that person that always makes babies cry. I may be that quiet or "really nice" girl in B6, but if Ricochet had the chance to show you she'd tell you that I have an insanely feisty opinion and I am definitely not who I appear to be. I may not be sassy or I may not be drop dead gorgeous but if Ricochet really knew herself, you'd know that it doesn't matter. 
 Anywho. Maybe this hasn't been super clear, but I hope that these 
past few weeks you've been able to see her heart for what it really is. I may have a blog that a lot of people see, but not very many people read, or in other words, you may see me around a lot, but not truly "see" me. But Ricochet Greyson would have you believe that she is okay with that. She would have you believe that she doesn't need that to feel loved or understood any more. Anyways, thanks for listening. 
              
             This is me checking out from Ricochet Greyson,

    Yours truly, 
               Katy(freaking)McClain




                                     

album title: The Iceberg Analogy

The Iceburg Analogy
Album description: a chance to lower the water a bit.
Description of the tracks: 

Track 1, (published Jan. 30, 1999)
Here marks my 1st year in life. Everything is astonishing and even though I experienced so much to get to this point, I still couldn't blow out that one candle. I didn't mind.

Track 2, (published Jan. 30, 2000)
Two candles are smoking and I'm starting to find my place in the hubbub. Everything is still astonishing. Who knew that that big black thing in the kitchen held so many fun things to create? #eggslimeonthetile

Track 3, (published 2001)
Mommy and Daddy are back. There are now 3 new people to add to the 8 in the frame on the wall. My oldest sisters aren't smiling and I fended for myself.

Track 4, (published 2002)
2 of them got on the plane, much to Mommy's tragic relief and Daddy's disdain. There are cracks in our house now. But it's okay because someone planned came to us. A light containing smiles and cute Oshkosh overalls.

Track 5, (published 2003)
Our pain is mostly gone, but the cracks are still there. The trampoline, my stuffed animals, and imaginary creatures are my best friends.

Track 6, (published March 1, 2004)
Another one. She looks just like you, they said. I'd never been more flattered.

Track 7, (published Summer of 2005)
My best friend and I are still cleaning the dirt from under our finger nails. I'd never had so many adventures.

Track 8, (published Feb. 2006)
I feel so old, but beautiful. A pretty white dress hangs in my closet.

Track 9, (published Jan. 2007)
We left our safe haven. Where the crap am I? Why are there so many fields? Where are the mountains? So many new faces. And those 48
hour shifts damaged more than just his health.

Track 10, (published Jan. 2008)
We left again. We found even more fields and there are no mountains to be seen. And I could hopefully get used to the smell. More new friends?

Track 11, (published 2009) 
*scratched* 

Track 12, (published 2010)
Too many vacations to Disneyland, instead of the trip to his heart. The trip we all needed. My fist is crammed in my mouth. The crack continues to trickle to the roof, regardless of the new house.

Track 13, (published 2011)
My brother and sister left for a time. They must have somehow known we'd need the help of their black name tags. 

Track 14, (published April, 2012)
The crack reached the top. Our house split in two, as well as her heart. The sun left us and too many doors closed when they should've opened. I fended for myself.

Track 15, (published Aug. 2013)
We found the sun. Tears of joy followed its rays, but I was the only one who bothered to check the forecast. Something is not right. We're living in the quiet before the storm. Be caref-

Track 16, (published Oct. 2014)
The storm. A storm I told myself would never rage, is here. And I am devastated. And sickened. And in pain...so much pain. Caught in a deathly silent blizzard trying to find a pocket knife
to cut bonds that I didn't even know I was born with. Some of us are back in our safe haven, but it doesn't compensate for much. Someone please see me.

Track 17, (published Sept. 2015)
The storm still rages, but it's okay because I found my pocket knife. And I don't know how,
but I can see color through the flurry of snowflakes now. That wind thinks it's pretty
strong, but it still can't blow faster than my heart. I am no longer, and never will be the
girl drenched from the snow.

Track 18, (to be released, Jan. 30, 2016)
It's almost here. And I'm not ready.
God, please let me still be a kid, or at least stay 17...
I've never felt so alive, so right, just the way I am, just the way things are.

But I don't love writing?

I made a map of my heart 

with hopes to help me find just where my it beats in my chest.
To find just what is flowing through my veins.

I printed many tender, simple things on my heart that day. 
Like, 

my family, Disneyland, fall time, fireflies, airplanes, or "The Newsies"
But something happened that I didn't expect.

Poetry was not among them. 

When people ask me what I want to be when I get older,

I've always told them a writer.
I long for that to be a passion,

but I don't love writing. 
I'm not one who waits and waits all day to get out a piece of paper and spill her guts on it. I'm not one who writes to feel alive.
Besides, Poetry left me a long time ago. 

Maybe I'm a tourist, but I couldn't lie to my heart.

 I am very interested in Poetry and I believe it has the 
exhilarating potential to help me stay alive.

But not enough to make it a piece of me...yet. 
Is it weird that I want to be a writer someday 
but am still teaching myself how to love it? 
writing is so hard.
It has the capacity to make you lose sleep at night. 
Like an angry itch lingering somewhere you can't reach.
It is an idea that constantly hovers over you,
 showing you potential poetry in anything 
from an empty room to a rusted nail.
It takes up all of your thoughts and paper.
In fact, writing thrives and feasts on your paper, brain...and heart.
Like a hungry, nagging child that is so hard to please.
If you really think about it, to most that would be a blessing, 
but to me its a curse because of my inability to embrace it for what it is.
I attempt to pour my heart into everything I write, but it comes out looking like my brain. Making me feel as though my ideas and words are brilliant, but after I get them on paper it smells like wasted potential. 
Writing deceives my heart sometimes. And it hurts. 
But.
That doesn't stop me from striving to love it. To call Poetry to come back.
From yearning to be anxiously engaged in spilling my guts on the page.
I may not love writing enough to print it on my heart,
but for now I'll sit back and read, and write,
and do scary things,
and observe,
and read and write some more.
Anxiously waiting, teaching
my blood to pulse a little faster through out me,
Yearning
For the day when I can print Poetry on my 
heart. 

Confusion(n): You.

Confusion.

So subtle....oh so subtle.

Sly, like a snakes eyes.

Confusion.

The stifling feeling I get when I hear the wrong side of the story.

Like advice from a hypocrite. 

Confusion is contradiction.

Contradiction confuses truth.

and Truth is who I strive to be.

Confusion.

Is barreled up emotions trying to speak their mind.

Like written stories that nobody reads.

Confusion is hurt.

Confusion is the brawl between heart and mind. 

It is the hate you feel after being betrayed by love.

Love confuses hate.

Confusion is hate. 

Confusion is the peaceful, but unsettling, feeling I get when someone I love dies.

It is wanting to scream, but remaining silent. 

Confusion is the quiet before the storm.

Sly. Unsettling. 

Somehow knowing that something is not right.

Confusion 

Is 

You.

You're dead. But still breathing. Still promising me things with your glass eyes. Something that is not right.

And Truth is me. 

Assessing everything you do. Learning how to be your opposite. Clarity. Warmth. And a billion other good things. 

Whether you realize it or not, you are still teaching me. 

You may be a liar, but 

Truth is taking notes.